


Apportion

by Crwowrey



Series: The Macrocosm Chronicles [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Drama, F/M, Pre-Savoureux, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crwowrey/pseuds/Crwowrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Neither, really. When Hannibal wakes up one morning, he's somewhere he'd never thought he'd step foot in again - Lithuania.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bohemian Rhapsody

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arochilton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/gifts), [foolslikeyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolslikeyou/gifts), [UndodgedBullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndodgedBullet/gifts).



> I apologize. I just apologize. 
> 
> This is a very messed up AU.

Hannibal wondered if wine before bed was starting to become a bad idea.

The sun shone bright against the white - white? - curtains, against the white walls and bed sheets. A loud banging accompanied the bright lights. He figured it was just his head, just a horrible headache from, perhaps, too much drinking; screaming accompanied **that** and he realized it wasn't just the alcohol. What the voice was yelling, he didn't know. Not until it entered the room.

"Hannibal Adomas Lecter, you get out of bed this minute! For heaven's sake, boy, it’s half-past noon and you’re still laying about.” The woman chided as she waddled to the bedside, giving his rear a rough smack; His body, otherwise uncertain how to act, jolted upward in response. “Do you know what day it is?” The woman's glare was almost harsh enough to make his body ache. Perhaps it was from the spanking. 

“Why are you in my bedroom?” 

“I did not spank you without reason, Hannibal, now get up! Always late, I don’t know why your parents expect you to marry any respectable woman!” Before Hannibal is able to even answer, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt is thrown at him. “You have a date in an hour, hurry up and shower.” Her exit was made prominent by the slam of the door.

Let it be known that his head was already in a spin; his next visitor only made it worse.

“’Anni, come on! What’s-her-face’ll be here in like, thirty minutes!” A girl - woman, more like - came bounding in the bedroom. Mousey brown hair swooped behind her, falling in ringlets against her back when she came to a full stop at his bedside.

“Whyareyouinmybedroom?”

“Are you naked?” her nose scrunched.

“No.”

“Then shut up.” The brunette swooshed her hair to the side as she looked at him. “You’re gonna wear _that_?”

“…Perhaps?”

“You’ll look like a hobo,” she sneered and went straight for the closet. “Can't have that. But,” she shuffled through the clothes, as though she knew exactly what she was looking for. “This will do just fine. You look dashing in suits, did you know that?” When she turned, he saw the grey suit that was draped over her arm – a suit he recognized from his reality. “Complete with a paisley tie. Mother knows how much you adore them. Brother mine, what do you think?”

Hannibal bit his tongue at the realization - Mischa Simonetta Lecter, (roughly) age thirty-four, stood at his closet, holding one of his suits. She was alive, and their  **parents** were alive. The castle wasn't an orphanage, or a museum depicting their family history and their tragedy. It was a castle, where a rich-as-piss family lived

“Earth to ‘Anni. Come in, ‘Anni,” Mischa snapped in his face, then whacked his ear with one of the hangers. “You ought to get dressed, lover boy. Mother’s already not happy about you not eating breakfast; don’t make it worse by not going on your stupid date.”

He shook his head and stood, though his legs practically screamed in protest.“Where’s father?”

“Out drinking,” Mischa sighed as she hip-bumped her elder brother. “Where else would he be, brother mine?” She ran a hand up his bare spine; Hannibal shivered before slipping away to don the shirt.

“I was guessing with mother.” 

His sister brayed and, in a very nonchalant manner,  _groped_ him; the only reaction this got was a very unmanly squeal. "You really ought to tell that to Matilda." 

"Is that the woman I'm going on a date with?" 

"...That's the maid, dear.  **Margot** is who you're going on a date with." There was a curious, confused look on her face, which Hannibal ignored as he looked down, only to fumble with the buttons.

"Margot. Pretty name," he muttered. Was it just him, or were things just a bit blurrier than before? He rubbed at his eyes with his hand, then went back to work with the buttons. 

"She's a pretty girl, too. Margot Verger. American." With a waggle of Mischa's brow, she draped her arms over her brother's shoulders and leaned to peck his nose. "She'll adore you. Nearly everyone does." 

"Including yourself?"  _You're making it more than difficult to get ready._

"Most of all myself," she clicked her tongue as she forced his hands away from the tie. "You're not doing it right. Let me." And he let her. 

He contemplated logical explanations for this; this is just a dream, the other world is just a dream, or he's hallucinating. Whatever it was, truly, he was okay with it. He enjoyed that he got to have a different life. A new chance; and that chance, is to be with his family. 


	2. Body Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at me - I gotta case of body language. 
> 
> Hannibal meets Margot; Margot and Hannibal bond over useless knowledge of the mental welfare of dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU'RE WELCOME GRACE.

“It’s all about body language,” Hannibal’s mother nodded her head. The brim of her hat covered a majority of her face from the sun, therefore from her son. Mischa was now donning similar apparel, a large hat, and a pale blue sundress; though, she didn't hide her smiling face.  “Head held high, darling,” she lifted his chin with her finger. “Like your sister here. And don’t slouch.”

“Mother, I’m not slouching,” he groaned. And he wasn't. He held himself higher, he felt, than he had before. It wasn't too hard to do, but harder on a practically-empty stomach. As queasy as he was, body language was as important as any words exchanged.

Mischa's hand rested on the small of his back, leaning up to peck Hannibal’s cheek. As comforting as he wished her presence was, it only made him feel worse; he didn't want to be touched. He wanted food, and tea, and bed. But it was too late for curling into his blankets and forcing himself to sleep again. As much as he wanted his reality, he knew it wasn't going to come that easily. He wasn't sure if that even was his reality; perhaps it was a dream and this was real. A loving family, a beautiful house, and let us not forget his arranged date.

A Bentley pulled up in the far-too-large driveway. It was black, sleek, and stunning. Hannibal crinkled his nose. That was his car. Apparently not anymore. A curvy woman, hair done up in a bun, slid out of the car, followed by a lanky man in a too-big fur coat. Margot, and…

“Mason Verger,” Mischa muttered. She was leaning heavily against him now, gripping at his forearm. “Have you seen a man so gorgeous?”

Hannibal just scoffed quietly and kept his eyes fixed on the blond man that practically clung to his sister’s side  - like a child on its mother’s hip, he refused to let her be even a few paces ahead. His lips moved rapidly, along with his hands, as he seemed to talk absolute nonsense. As they got closer, he realized that it wasn’t nonsense, but was, in fact, tips on wooing a man.

“Mr. Lecter,” Mason chirped. He took the calloused hand in his own and gave it a few rough shakes. Hannibal and the other Lecter sibling merely laughed nervously before doing their greetings.

Mother had returned to the shade of the house, reading God knows what and studying the siblings and their interactions. Mason and Mischa made most of the noise, giggling and chatting about how wonderful it was for their siblings to finally have someone to be dismal with; Margot and Hannibal only shook hands.

* * *

 

Mason and Mischa had decided to stalk about the library and left the two alone. Their walk was spent mostly in silence, until they reached the lake. It was still, with dark, murky water. The swans, big and small, caused the ripples that disrupted the stillness every so often. Hannibal smiled at the sight, it being practically the same from when he was little. 

"I'd mind the larger one," Hannibal stated. "He's a grumpy thing, tries his hardest not to let people get past the dock."

"He's protecting what's his," she replied coolly. "I'm not going to approach him." 

He looked - glared, almost - at her, then at the swans out on the lake; said bigger one had already started towards them. "That's not the issue, Ms. Verger. His issue is with people in general. When Mischa and I were little-- Oh, we go through this everyday, you mažai šūdas. I'm  **bigger than you** ," he informed the swan. The swan merely hissed; the swan doesn't give a shit. Hannibal groaned and brought his arms up, imitating the trees behind him and shooing at the swan with his hands. Hissing, the swan did back away, and Hannibal lowered himself to sit on the small dock. 

Margot, with a small smile, sat beside him. "Everyday, huh? Maybe he has swan-dementia," she joked. "Is that even a thing?" She continued; now she was giggling. "Swan-dementia?" 

He laughed before replying, "Dogs can be depressed, much like humans. They can get dementia and other mental illnesses. Why not swans?" 

She shrugged, then laughed. "Dogs can have mental illnesses?" 

"Yes! Unfortunately so." he pouted. "I know -  **knew** a dog that had OCD." 

"You're kidding." 

"I'm not! He had this habit of biting himself too often. It lead to an infection." 

"Did he die?" 

"Again, unfortunately. His owner was a friend of mine," he sighed. "Absolutely devastated." 

"It always is when you lose a pet," she chewed her lip. "Have you lost something like that before?" 

"More than you'd think, Ms. Verger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /you're welcome Grace/   
> THOUGH I'M SORRY IT'S SO SHORT
> 
> mažai šūdas - Lithuanian for "little shit".


	3. Feelings, Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotta get rid of these feelings*. 
> 
> *Or maybe the sister that won't leave me be about Margot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome, Grace.

Hannibal's head ached for many reasons. One was hitting it against a low-hanging branch he wasn't paying much attention to; the other reason due to Mischa's screaming when he told her he enjoyed being with Margot. 

"Ohmygod, have you told her? Oh! Does  **she** like  **you**?"

"You're overreact--" 

"She probably does! I mean, you're you, she's her!" Mischa squealed. "Did you guys kiss?" 

"No, we--"

"KISS HER NEXT TIME," she snapped. "Show your, uh, sensual side! She'll  **love** it." As she spoke, she sat beside him. "Did you at least hug?" 

"We shook hands." his voice, donning a bored tone, droned. 

"I'm sorry, what?" 

"We shook hands," he repeated. "It's when two people take hands and shake them." 

Add another reason to the Why Hannibal's Head Hurt list - Mischa hitting him over the head while she screams a mix of Lithuanian and English at him; and despite the aforementioned headache, he laughed.

"Mischa, Hannibal!" Simonetta, their lovely mother, called to them from just down the hall. "Your father's headaches." 

"What's new?" Mischa shouted back; Hannibal, again, laughed. 

"Mischa, shush. Just...Come eat, would you? Give him peace for all of twenty minutes, hmm?" 

With one last whack to his head, he watched as his sister scampered out of the room. 

* * *

 

 

Headache gone and stomach full, Hannibal stretched out across his bed and went about tucking the "date" into his mind palace. The bedroom was too intimate a place for such a simple date; the guest room the same. A simple room, such as the den, would suffice. It played like a movie there, against a backdrop of small, happy memories, such as ones from his childhood; he was happy with its placement, so he stayed there to watch it again and again.

During this stay and numerous repeats of their talk, he found himself studying every little detail about Margot. Her eyes were a stunning shade of blue. When she smiled, her teeth showed; pearly white. Her hair never once fell in her face, even when she laughed. Speaking of, her laugh was beautiful enough to bring a smile to his lips, just at the thought of it.

The audio was soft, but loud enough for Hannibal to pick out bits of the conversation.  _  
_

_He's protecting what's his._

_Have you lost something like that before?_

_Is your nose bleeding? Oh, shit, it is. Um. No, tilting your head back doesn't -- you got some blood in your mouth._

The taste of copper lingered still in his mouth. 

_**Come to the ball next week. I'll be the one in the tux.**  _

_I'll be in the one in the dress, handsome._

As these thoughts progressed, he felt  **something** in his stomach. He felt ill, but he was almost pleased with the nausea; satisfied with how disgusting he felt. Is this what it felt like to have a  **crush?**

No.     Crushes are for schoolchildren. Infatuated was more like it. 

Hannibal Lecter was infatuated with Margot Verger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOUD SOUNDS


	4. Dancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't live with it, I'm gonna die without it.
> 
> Hannibal learns more and more about this reality's version of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal actually pisses me off.

 

The Lecter Ball, according to his mother, was considered the event of the season. "Of course, you wouldn't know, would you?" she scolded quietly. "Always running about with that... Oh, goodness, what's the horrid boy's name?" 

"Um, Jimmy!" Mischa chirped. "Jimmy Price. But I heard he's in rehab. The same center you went to last year. Remember?" 

"I'm.... Yes. Yes, of course." 

 _Rehabilitation. What for?_ He pursed his lips in question, but that so-called question went ignored by both of the women.

"I'm thankful you stopped talking to that man," his mother, in a very cold tone, added. "Good for nothing. May I see your arm?" Though he had yet to give a response, she held out her own expectantly. 

 _His arm._ Of all things he hadn't thought about, was the shape his physical body was in. He held it out to her and there they were - the telltale track marks of a former junkie. "You're healing marvelously." his mother sighed gently, her demeanor doing a complete 180. Her fingers danced over the little marks, and though it hurt, he didn't pull it to her attention. "My darling boy, my baby," she murmured in Lithuanian. She reminded Hannibal of a peacock, the way she moved her head in quick, little bursts rather than in slow, fluid motions. "We're proud of you, all of us are. Even... even your father is proud." 

Though she meant it, her sincerity genuine, he could only show gratitude for the statements by nodding his head and looking away. Mischa took this as it was: his wish to be alone. 

"Why don't you go take a shower?" she whispered to him before pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'll...Help mother, down here." 

* * *

Hannibal's shower was slow, spent namely searching his body for scars and other abnormalities on one's body.  Fortunately (and unfortunately), there were only the track marks. 

The peace that followed his shower was short-lived when Mischa bustled in yelling, "You aren't dressed?! God's sake, Hannibal Adomas, you can't do anything without- just drop the damn towel and get dressed! The party is in an hour!" 

"I can get dressed in less than that," he sighed; he was vaguely disturbed and uncomfortable with her demand that he be  **exposed** -exposed. "May I please go about changing without you watching me so carefully?"

"It's gonna take more than twenty minutes to get you properly--" 

"You're stressed about seeing Mason," he said after taking a deep breath. He was once again in his bathroom as he added, "Which is due to your attraction to him. Adding to that, you're stressed about seeing Margot and I interacting again, because you want to see me not screw yet another thing up. Is that true?" He ran the comb through his hair, pulling it away from his eyes. 

There was a long silence. 

"I need you to understand something, sweet sister: I do not plan to mess this up. I want to have a ... happy moment just as much as you'd like me to. Similarly," he poked his head out of the doorframe, still running his comb through his hair. "I would like to see you and Mason have your happy moments." 

"...Shut up and get ready." The door slammed as though it were the punctuation mark missing from the sentence, but soon, Hannibal's comfortable silence collected him once more.

* * *

 

By the time the Vergers had arrived, the party, it seemed, was in full-swing; this was measured by how drunk the Count was. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, had found himself lurking about the dinner table and making (very) small talk with passersby.

Margot, after managing to get Mason to attach himself to Mischa by some miracle, she approached Hannibal, though he didn't realize it until she spoke. "You look good in a tux." 

"Hm?" he turned to face her. "Thank you. You look quite lovely yourself." He smiled. With a tilt of his head, he raised his glass to his lips. Through it, he saw a feigned little pout from her. He, then, smirked as he took a sip of his wine. 

"Drink often?" 

"Not as much as I'd like." 

Truth be told, parties were nothing new to Hannibal. Dinner parties were the most frequented parties; birthday "parties" were not his favorite, evidently. Parties, however, were not thrown too often. His friends were not very big party people, nor did he have that many friends; he had more acquaintances. He wouldn't call himself a social butterfly, as that would the opposite of what he was. An older 'friend' once offered the title social-vampire - he showed his distaste to that friend by flambeing his lungs. 

At this party, however, he had to interact with - not with who he wanted to - people his parents insisted he'd missed out on. Mischa tugged him, tugging Margot by proxy, with him. She introduced him to family friends, during which he thanks this reality's version of him for slacking off in the "social interactions" department; Celeste, an up-and-coming French model and close friend of Mischa's, had come to get herself out there and (hopefully) find someone willing to be her full-time agent; Dr. Antonio Fell, who had apparently been Hannibal's psychiatrist during his entire rehabilitation process, and his wife, Anastasia; according to her, they only came to watch the Count tell drunken, embarrassing stories about Mischa and Hannibal when they were little. 

Hannibal and Margot somehow managed to pull themselves further from those they knew and began to dance with one another. This was new to her, it was blatantly obvious with how she occasionally (constantly) stepped on his toes. To keep from making her even more flustered than she already was, he kept his laughter to himself. Their small take came after dancing, after they were further away from other couples who were already drunker than he had wished to see them. In the library of the Castle, Margot and Hannibal sat on the couch together, discussing books and Disney movies in relation to their true story. The conversation turned from lighthearted joking to a serious, "So you used to be a junkie." 

He was hesitant before answering. If he told the truth of this reality, he'd be lying. If he told the truth of his reality, he'd be lying. 

In his reality, he wasn't a junkie, nor had he ever been. He was a strong man; a psychiatrist; Will Graham's friend; a lover of the arts; an artist himself; a chef. 

**In his reality, he was the Chesapeake Ripper.**

He told the lie that everyone else seemed to believe, "Yes. I've been clean for a year now." He looked away from her, towards the books; an act of self-disappointment (if he must speak like a former-addict, he must play the role to its full extent). He loathed having to act out of his true character, no doubt. It felt like lying, and lying felt wrong when it came to speaking to Margot. 

She placed her cup on the table, then that hand on his shoulder, gently massaging it. "Hey... Uh, you... look great for someone who used to... Do that. It's okay. Shit, I'm bad at this comforting thing." 

Nodding, he began to chew on the inside of his cheek. "It was my own fault, Margot. You don't need to comfort me," his voice was shaky; another addition. "It's my own fault, but I'm getting much, much better. I promise."

"It's.. Hey, it's okay. Come here."

... "Pardon?"

Margot opened her arms for Hannibal to lean into. He paused a moment before deciding to accept the invitation. He, too, sat his glass down on the table before he found himself laying his head against her shoulder. 

She smelled like leather. Admittedly, it was a manly scent, it was one Hannibal had grown quite fond of. It washed over him in waves, each time she shifted even the slightest. It clung to her in the loveliest fashion, it followed her wherever she moved. A delightful scent that drew a delighted sigh from him. 

"Is there anything else I can do to help?" she murmured quietly. She seemed skilled in comforting, so he wasn't quite so sure what made her think otherwise. 

"No, no. This is good. Very good." 

He felt her lips press to the top of his head; And as gentle as the kiss was, it was, in one word, exquisite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have made typos. My mind is too anjsdfdhsjhas to register this late, but I WILL fix thm when I get back from my trip!! xoxo
> 
> Edit: Every Friday, there will be an update!


	5. Play The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come play the game. This is your life - don't play hard to get.
> 
> Hannibal reflects on his time in Lithuania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shortness of this chapter! Family things going on, yada yada. I promise another update by Wednesday to make up for the shortness and laziness of this chapter.   
> There might be typos and I'm sorry for that!

It was one of the first times he had been completely alone since he'd been here, and time spent alone meant time to reflect; time to reflect meant time to (possibly) answer questions one might have. The problem was that he could not find a logical answer to his first question: "How am I here?" The only "logical" answer was an elaborate dream; perhaps it was a strange version of Hell that would fuck him over in someway. Or his other life had been an elaborate dream, and this was his real life. 

The next was a less stressing question: "Who was Jimmy Price?" He knew the name, but couldn't bring a face to it. Perhaps in reality (dream?) he had been a mere acquaintance, someone he'd met through Will and the FBI. In the journal he'd acquired, he put a '?' next to the name. 

"What was childhood like?" He could recall nothing from his childhood but what happened in his reality, were it his reality. He did his best to block it out after he'd killed those men, he had no use for those memories now. Despite his attempt, the resurfacing of the memory made him grit his teeth. He decided the answer would remain unanswered and more furiously than not scribbled over the question. 

"Lady Murasaki&Robert Lecter?" Had his uncle passed from the illness that ailed him? Had he even had it? Were there cousins running about somewhere? More questions. Come back to it when answered by relative in conversation. 

"Perceived how?" He hadn't learned much by merely being around his family. He felt as though his role was incomplete without learning how he acted around persons that were not part of his immediate family. Another question to be answered by experience. 

"Casual dress or "fancy" dress?" A question that was later answered by Matilda, asking a number of questions about why he was wearing such a fancy suit for just lying about. For the time being, he doodled a little bow tie. 

"Past relationships?" Friendships gone sour; exes; teachers; friends with benefits(if he'd done that sort of thing); just acquaintances; he didn't know. The low groan that escaped was loud enough for it to bounce off the walls and make him cringe.

"Margot?" Margot. Beautiful, sweet Margot. Audacious. Funny. 

A question popped into his mind that he himself was not sure how to answer. As new questions tried to bubble to the surface, it merely popped them like bubbles with the sound of its voice.

In the smallest font he could manage, he wrote the word that echoed loudly in his mind; the question he mustn't answer aloud. 

"Murderer?" 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry!
> 
>  
> 
> Also: I'd like you to know how much you guys reading means to me. 
> 
> Thank you!


	6. We Are the Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are the champions, my friends. 
> 
> Drinking with the girls, surprise visit from dear Margot.

If there was one thing Hannibal would be taking from this experience, it would be how horribly crowded the bars were in Vilnius. That, and how horribly rude they were. 

Hannibal sat there, toying with the can of beer in hand and listening to his drunk mother and sister blabbed about God-knows who - he elected to not care all that much. 

"Anni, how's Miss. Verger?"

"Fine." 

"Surly~." His mother sighed. "But that's good! Have you two spoken since the dancey-dance?"

"Yes." No. "She's.. Peachy." There was a pause as he took a sip. Admittedly, it was much stronger than the beer in America, and he was thankful for that. "Both been busy, no time to visit too often."

"You two," his mother started, hiccuping before she continued with, "would make pretty babies. Dark hair, amazing eyes."

Hannibal coughed as the sentence progressed. "What the absolute hell?"

"Language, boy. And I'm speaking a truth!"

"A truth to be kept to yourself. Margot and I are just friends."

The 'truths' his mother spoke were just her fantasies. Everyone was subject to them upon her having a bit too much to drink. 

Mischa was easier to deal while drunk, he noticed. She sang, yes, but she also asked silly questions that had managed to make Hannibal feel as though he'd puke from his laughing so hard. 

"What if your legs didn't know they were legs?" She asked, twirling her straw. 

"What would they think they were, if not legs?" Hannibal chucked.

"... Arms. Or swords. Sword legs!" She mused; he snorted another laugh. 

"How would you tell your legs that they were, in fact, legs?"

"Legs can't talk, idiot."

"Poor things, being kept from their true identities. Living a lie." Perhaps he was a little tipsy. 

"I KNOW! We ought to start a Leg Awareness campaign. It would-"

"Sorry for interrupting, but may I sit here?" American. Familiar. Margot? Margot. Hannibal turned and smiled faintly. 

"Of course you may. I'd be offended if you didn't."

"Long time, no see." Mischa chimed, playfully shoving the brother. He didn't mind it, too busy noticing the bruise that hid under foundation, just on her jaw. He chose against bringing it up. 

"Yeah, sorry. Family drama." She answered, just before ordering her choice beverage - rum and Coke. 

"More of a western drink, hence the strange look." He stated softly. "Apologies."

"I'll live." She sighed. 

"Still."

"Mm."

"Mm?"

"How are you?"

"Peachy. And you?"

"You said peachy. That's not an emotion, it's a fruit."

"And he's been so... So grumpy today. Little baby."

"Drink your vodka, mother." The was a low growl in his voice. One thing he missed about his other life, was not having to say that. 

"I am, pumpkin."

He turned his gaze back to Margot, who wore a small smile now. "Apologies for those two."

"It's kinds funny," she chuckled, sipping her drink. 

"Hysterical." With a roll of his eyes, a much larger drink was taken. 

"Cheer up, Grumpy Gus." She teased. "Just playing." 

"Eh."

"Why don't we get you a stronger drink?"

* * *

Hours passed, and Hannibal and Margot were playing a game of Who Can Catch the Most Pretzels in Their Mouth. The pair, now, two drunken dears only continued to miss the other and hot someone else. They ended up laughing too hard to even try. 

Hand in hand, they talked. Drunken jokes and idiotic "confessions" about their failures. Eventually, he held up his glass of vodka. "Mother, sister, Margot," he started. "We are the champions of the goddamn world. We... I love you all, you kick ass motherfuckers. Don't you ever, ever change. Understand?"

"Aye." The three responded, giggling. Margot and Mischa both moved to kiss his cheeks. 

"T'us."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! I've been swamped with school and whatnot. Gonna try to update more frequently! Apologies for typos, too. Tablet hates me.


	7. Seven Seas of Rhye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers aren't fun. Just saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT TOOK ME 4 MONTHS BUT HERE IT IS!

If you asked any one of Hannibal Lecter's friends, they'd all tell you the same thing: he never drank too much in one sitting. Yes, he did drink recreationally, but it was usually limited to a glass of wine. It'd been a learnt trait, one he'd acquired whilst living with his aunt and uncle. Either adult, respectably, had a glass a day, at dinner. That became his standard. But that was in a diffeent world, one that may not even exist! He'd heaed of complex dreams before, but it was uncommon, if not impossible, to dream up different and new people; and this world held him to a completely different standard. In that world - a dream world (?) - he had be a renowned surgeon and psychiatrist. Now? He was a spoiled ex-drug addict who had had just a little too much to drink the night before. His head throbbed as he opened his eyes, his brain thump, thump, thumping like the speakers of someone's stereos. He hated the song, or whatever it was that his brain pulsed to. A soft groany exhale warmed the pillow under his head; the pulsating grew worse. He didn't want to open his eyes. Not yet. Not yet. More sleep. Please. For the love of God -

"Mamytė!" was screamed from just down the hall. Mischa, apparently, was also having a bad morning.

"Shh," responded a voice from beside him. Now his eyes blinked open to find the source. Squinting as to not be terribly bothered by the stinging sunlight, he caught sight of Margot, curled up at his side. "Shshshshshshsh."

"What are you doing in here, gražus viena?" As pained as his voice was, it sounded a lot more sleepy than hurt.

"Shhhhhhhh," was her only response. She rolled over, draping both an arm and a leg over Hannibal's middle; her face nuzzled into his bare chest. He sighed before groaning at the sound of his little sister heaved, quite loudly, in her room.

* * *

 

"How many strips of bacon have you had?" Mischa asked, scowling absently at the girl across the table. Margot, with her free hand, plucked yet another one from the plate before her and shrugged.

"Not enough," she grinned and looked at Hannibal; he, too, had a little scowl on his face. "Someone can't hold his liquor."

"Shhhhhhh, gražus." he managed. He leaned back against her aforementioned busied hand, which stroked his hair calmingly. "Mamytė, may I have some more coffee?"

"Of course, saulė, of course." The Countess was how she always was: beautiful, but tired. She showed no sign of having drank the night before. Hannibal noted that they had the misfortune of having their father's luck with hangovers. "Sugar?" He shook his head, awaiting for the cup to be filled to the brim before drinking up.

"You can't survive on just coffee, turtingas berniuką. Eat some eggs, and some bacon, and why not have some pancakes?"

"...You make me hate my existence," he squirmed; why did his stomach ache? A glare was passed between the siblings. Margot managed a small, small chuckle of amusement. Simply, now, he felt queasy. Unadulterated queasiness that swam through his stomach and up his--

Off Hannibal raced to the bathroom, where the contents of his stomach was emptied into the toilet bowl. This time, he was the one to call for his mother. But he was so used to her not coming when she was called. He was used to waking up in the middle of the night, in Baltimore, screaming out for his mother, his sister, for someone, that when she came up the steps, it made him jump a little bit. Don't get him wrong, he was indeed happy for his mother and the currative powers of his mommy dearest, but he'd felt so abandoned by her that it made him uneasy to have her so near, to have her stroking his hair and shushing him as he whimpered pathetically into her shoulder.

Eventually, she managed to coax him back downstairs, despite it still smelling of bacon and the other things he'd just rid his stomach of. It wasn't that hard, since Margot was down there. Margot opened her arms for him and, also, attempted to coax him to whatever it was she wanted. Ultimitaley, it was just so he'd sit in her lap. "I'd squash you," he argued. "And I smell of mesti į viršų."

"Sit down, you little-- Misch, what was that word you taught me?"

"Kalė," his sister giggled. Hannibal stuck his tongue out at her; she reciprocated the action.

"Mischa Amalija Lecter, we do not call our siblings such... horrid things. Apologize." "Yeah, _Amalija_ , apologize."

"Įkąsti mane!" Simultaneously, they all squirmed.

"If you want to yell, do it at a quieter level," their mother huffed. "Now, sit down and būti ramioje."

Hannibal sat upon Margot's lap, who took to rubbing his back gently. She was weird, he pointed out. She was weird, but so was he. She was the good weird, at the very least. She was the kind of weird that would curl up beside you at night and read to you out loud; the kind of weird that sung too loudly in the shower; at least, she seemed the type.

He absently hoped she was the type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have Hannibal Lecter slowly slip into deep like.


	8. As It Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I hadn't updated since February, but I have completed Apportion as a whole in writing. Now, all there is to do is update like I'm supposed to.  
> (Love you, Grace) x

For the fifth time this week, Hannibal had woken up falling off of his bed. 

It wasn't a small bed, either. It was a king-size, big enough for, perhaps, three grown adults; not big enough to fit a Margot and a Hannibal, it seemed. 

He frowned as he sat up, scratching at the stubble. With a short exhale, he managed to hoist himself up onto the bed once more. Sleep wouldn't come back, he was certain, but there was no harm in trying. Margot was a less-than-graceful sleeper, and once she'd waken him, there was no going back - every little thing would bother him. It didn't matter, though; he had books to read and compo-- wait, he can't do that anymore. Or could he ever do that? Composing seemed to be another thing his dream-self had managed to master within a short time. 

{You cannot learn in dreams.}

His soft groan echoed off of the walls, off the mirror that showed him someone he was not used to seeing - a man with disheveled hair and scars from his youth, with deep circles around his eyes. 

[Maybe you can.]

The bed creaked beneath him as he shifted to his side, bunched up to the edge; Margot had staked her claim on the other eighty percent and there was little reason to fight for anything larger than his twenty. He'd never needed too much room to find somewhere comfortable enough to sleep, whereas Margot - well, that goes without saying.

As the hours ticked by, he thought of his dream. Dream-self had been many things, as he could recall. A doctor, an orphan, an artist, a composer, a polyglot - a cannibal. The thought did not disgust him and that scared him. He thought of how many people - real or imaginary - his dream-self had eaten, preparing their organs as if they were merely beef or chicken or pork, and he did not grow nauseous.

He grew hungry. 

He grew _very_ hungry. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it was short. But there's gonna be another chapter update.


	9. Death On Two Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death on two legs, you're tearing me apart/Death on two legs, you never had a heart of your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rape threat/mention tw//

Hannibal Lecter, twenty-eight years old and eighth of the name, lay in his bathtub. The water, both warm and stained with a sort of crimson, brought a micro-smile to his lips. He studied said smile in the wall-to-wall. His new expression was one he'd seen himself, his dream-self, don on more than one occasions; trying it on for himself, it seemed to suit him better than the anything else.  As small as it was, he realized that is was corrupt. It was made from his sin and from his sin his smile was made. Many times before had a smile, his smile, been forced to the surface, or did not quite feel right, but this time, it was real. Sinister, but oh-so real and felt oh-so good - mentally, a note was made to 

He cocked his head to the side, his reflection followed suit. His eyes, once dark and hollow, spotted the blood from an opened wound. He'd tend to it, eventually, and say he'd scratched himself in his sleep. He'd done it before, just a week ago. Slipping back into the water, Hannibal closed his eyes and let out a gentle exhale. 

 

 _Hannibal had long since slipped from he and Margot's shared bed and from his family's house. He needed, he'd decided mere minutes ago, that air - and a drink - were necessary. It was still dark when he hopped onto his motorcycle and made his way into town._ _He navigated past streets and closed shops with ease, past dark houses and quiet yards, until he arrived at the bar. Admittedly, it was off-putting not seeing his father there, but it was for the better. No arguments had been heard from his own bedroom and, he figured, from Mischa's. Similarly, it meant there would be no bar-fights for him to break up; he was not obligated to, since none of these people really mattered to him._

_One man in particular caught Hannibal's eye. He was young, drunk off his ass and hitting on a girl who looked far younger than eighteen. The young girl looked frightened almost, and fiddled absently with the glass she held. It looked as though she hadn't even taken a sip, but you could see the melted ice resting easily atop the drink itself. Hannibal frowned at the sight, then turned to the bartender and nodded toward the girl._

_"Is she alright?"_

_"Should be. Might be a little... Boozed."_

_"She has not touched her drink."_

_The bartender shrugged and went on to wipe down the counter._

_This time, he turned to the girl. The man had gone elsewhere, so he asked, "Are you okay?"_

_In English, she responded, "I can't... I can't understand you, I'm sorry."_

_"No, no, you're fine," he said back, then offered what he could of a smile. "I asked if you were okay."_

_"I... Feel weird. I want to go home, but that's..." she sighed. "It's a long ways away. I just don't feel safe."_

_"Is that man bothering you?"_

_"That man? Oh, he's my boyfriend." There was a weak attempt at a smile, then she tugged back a short strand of hair. "He's just drunk, is all."_

_"I could tell."_

_The bathroom door flew open, and out stumbled the man; in response, she simply nodded and turned back to him. "Can we go back to the hotel? It's late, I'm tired."_

_"If we do, you owe me a li'l of that... sweetness, y'know?"  
_

_"No, babe, not tonight," she pleaded. "I have a headache."_

_"Baby," he frowned, deeply. "You sa-aid we would. You can' break... a promise!"_

_"Not. Tonight."_

_"Yes tonight."_

_"She said no," Hannibal scoffed. His eyes had never left the couple, and could tell that his irritation could be seen through them. "No reason to continue badgering her about it."_

_"Butt - hic - out, dude."_

_[Dude?]_

_"Well, **dude** , she wants to sleep. She does not want to sleep with you."_

_"Could just hit it," he slurred, "while she's out, man. You know how it is."_

_"That's considered rape."_

_"Tomayto, tomahtoe," he shrugged dramatically, then frowned at Hannibal. "Wha' do yo-ou care?"_

_"Because no means no. No matter what she had promised you earlier, she owes you nothing." he paused, tilting his glass back to finish off his drink. "She changed her mind."_

_"This isn't your fight, Hannibal," the bartender muttered. "Leave it be. You cannot protect everyone."_

_"But she's my girlfriend."_

_Hannibal stood, then grabbed the man by his shirt color. "It does not matter if she is your girlfriend, your wife, or your mistress. That is **not**  automatic consent."_

_A moment's pause, then a man brought his fist up to hit Hannibal's face. He missed, a drunken hand being unsteady and slow enough for the closeness not even to matter. When the man ended up on the floor, Hannibal looked to the bartender. "May I?_

_"Do what you must." He nodded, then ushered the poor girl to the parking lot. "I'll take you to your, ah, hotel," he said, in a very broken form of English._

_Hannibal had held a foot on the man's back, just until the bartender and the girl had left. Then, he'd brought the man up to his feet, only to slam his face onto the hardwood counter - smashing the glass with the man's head was unintentional. Blood began to trickle from the wound and a soft groan from the man's mouth. Hannibal released him, then watched as he fumbled to turn around. He smiled that sinister smile up into the bar's mirror._

_He was going to have fun with this._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> SO INCEST. This isn't Game of Thrones. 
> 
> ....
> 
>  
> 
> Don't give me ideas.  
> Yes! Margot's in this, though it is pre-Savoureux. 
> 
> Props to Safia for giving me unexpected emotions with the name use.
> 
> Also super excited for people to give me shit for how I'm portraying Mischa. (Don't do it. Do not. I swear to Jesus.) I promise she won't be as handsy with Hannibal in later chapters.


End file.
